


Of whispers and emerald echoes

by clarasimone



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Courtly Love, Cunnilingus, Declarations Of Love, Desire, Erotica, F/M, Fantasizing, Knight, Love, Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Onanism, Oral Sex, Passion, Passionate Sex, Reminiscing, Shower Sex, True Love, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism, Woman on Top, priapism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarasimone/pseuds/clarasimone
Summary: When Ser Jorah is invited into Daenerys’ private bath chambers to recuperate from battle, he finds himself under the spell of the shimmering emerald waters and the haunting presence of his Khaleesi’s scent. But is he truly alone with his desire in this haven full of sighs and reminiscence ?





	Of whispers and emerald echoes

**Author's Note:**

> This one-off tale takes place in a GoT AU during Daenerys and Jorah's time in Meereen. Our lovelorn Ser is still dolorously pinning for his Khaleesi who has chosen Daario Naharis as her consort. Of course, the unrequitedness is about to end.
> 
> Daario and Greyworm only make a silent appearance but, in honor of @toas-tea, I have weaved a wee burgeoning friendship scene between Missandei and Jorah. Actually, without Missandei, none of what is about to unfold could have happened.
> 
> Bowing down to Lady @Chryssadirewolf for the truly amazing artwork gracing this fic. Wink to @ser-jorah-the-andal for the heated intellectual debates and nitpicking (canon info is so complicated). And my very special thanks to my soul sis, @houseofthebear for encouraging me to run with one of our early brain child. It went from a Protector hot flash to this rather full-blown GoT tale of sexual healing. My sexual healing. A needed prescription to cure me from seeing Canon Daenerys humiliate Jorah upon his return from the battle of Yunkai. Yes, I know, that is also what spawned The Claiming... but can we get too many versions of "what it took for Daenerys to finally open her eyes" or us seeing these two amazing characters finally come together for the first time? I hope the answer to that is no. Enjoy!

**Of whispers and emerald echoes**

  
Ser Jorah has never been in the bath chambers of the great pyramid of Meereen. But it is where the Khaleesi is sending him upon his victorious return from a skirmish involving slavers, a battle that left him bloodied, and his body aching. His body _and_ his soul because, when he stepped inside Daenerys’ quarters, she only inquired about the whereabouts of Daario Naharis. A replay of her insensitive reception after the Battle of Yunkai. _That _cut through him like no spear or enemy sword ever could.

Mercifully, Jorah did not have to answer the Queen’s query as the young mercenary swiftly appeared by his side. Bowing his head, the Knight simply shut off his whole being, refusing to witness whatever sweet commerce was bound to take place between Daario and his Khaleesi. _His Khaleesi_. The expression left his mouth tasting like iron and dust. He only wished to be dismissed and he heard his own voice demand to be excused. He didn’t remember hearing an answer, but no one had stopped him, _she_ had not stopped him, when he had walked away, willing his dignity to straighten his back. He only exchanged a quick glance and a nod towards Greyworm, who followed suit, before entering his private quarters. There he stopped dead, facing the night through his opened window, utterly paralyzed.

He was still wearing his armor when Missandei asked to be let in. It was she who brought him the news of Daenerys’ most unusual gift. The emerald waters of the bath chambers were said to possess healing properties and the Queen “wished her general to recuperate before returning to her service.” Too exhausted to put up any form of resistance, though he thought the gesture dolorously ironic, he simply followed Missandei through the corridors. The path she took had them follow the direction of Daenerys’ quarters which made Jorah uneasy. He didn’t want to hear Daenerys and Daario dallying. But just as he was about to halt Missandei, they veered into a corridor unknown to him and soon she opened a door to let him into a blissfully quiet and softly lit room. The bath chambers.

There, the tranquil green waters of the pools, some intimate, some ampler, sent reflective colored shimmers along the stone walls. The air was softened by purifying eucalyptus, and something else, something he couldn’t put into words, but which he breathed in, like a man breaking to the surface of the water after being under too long. When he turned to Missandei, he looked a bit shaken… and there were tears in his eyes. Which he didn’t understand, but which he most certainly kept from shedding. He opened his mouth to speak and stopped, because Missandei having done the same, he let her begin.

“Ser Jorah…” She stopped, likewise moved, looking into his eyes.

The expression on his face. The fact that he had not yet taken off his armor. He looked so vulnerable, to Missandei, this brave lovelorn Knight. Because, yes, of course, she knew. Missandei not only spoke 19 languages, she knew the most important one of all, that of the heart. She cleared her throat softly and started again: “Ser Jorah, our Queen thanks you, _sincerely_, and wishes you to make good use of these facilities. You may stay all night in her bath chamber, if you so wish…”

“_Her_ bath chamber?” The words leaving his lips, Jorah suddenly saw that he was indeed inside one of Daenerys’ private sanctums: combs for her hair, perfume bottles, precious jewelry adorned with silver dragons, a sheer robe lying about…and that scent he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_, identify before. Like amber, amber and…honey. _Her scent_!

“I should not be here. Missandei, please tell our Queen…”

But Missandei didn’t let him finish: “Of course, you should be here. Ser Jorah, you are the Queen’s most trusted advisor, her general and her good friend…”

That litany. He knew it by heart and only wished never to hear it again. His jaw was tensing. Surely the Queen would rather see to Daario’s comfort first. Tend to him herself here, bathe him… His thoughts torturing him, he was about to interrupt Missandei, to take leave of this place, when her next gesture stunned him. Following her graceful arm movement, he saw three young handmaidens step out of the shadows, holding alabaster urns and linens. They were smiling at him, luminous and somewhat in awe. Of him. Missandei was saying something, something about them helping him out of his armor and garments. And that they would see to his bruises and aching limbs.

“Missandei, I assure you this…this is not necessary.” His grip on his sword tightened but his slight stutter and bashfulness made Missandei smile sweetly at him. Which, in turn, made him curse himself inwardly.

“Ser, you do not understand. It is the Queen’s wishes that you should accept her handmaidens’ ministrations. They are quite versed in medicinal science and…other _arts_. They are to tend to your every need. All of them.”

The blush on Missandei’s cheeks was unmistakable and the meaning of her words sunk as rapidly into Jorah as the indignation shot out of his mouth: “_Never_!”

Jorah’s voice was so firm and clear, it reverberated across the vaulted room, rippling with an echo along the emerald waters and into every secret alcove. The air in one of them in particular, stirred; a shaky breath registering Jorah’s indignation.

But the next sound was that of a sweet voice: “But Ser, we volunteered!” The boldest of the handmaiden, a lovely auburn-haired beauty, actually looked hurt. Which flustered Jorah even more and, locking eyes with her briefly, he whispered a sincere apology and bowed before moving to leave, brushing past the female covenant.

Unfazed, Missandei’s voice was calm and caring when she stopped Jorah again with her words:

“Ser Jorah, are you refusing to obey a direct order from our Queen?” Surprisingly, a kind smile accompanied her query, her eyes letting Jorah know that she understood him; she understood everything, including his anger when he retraced his steps to stand before her, his murmur scorching her face.

“I once believed our Queen to be of gentle heart. I fear I did not know her well.”

“Ser, I beg you…” Missandei was still patiently trying to calm him.

“No doubt the Khaleesi will wish to banish me for going against her command. Please tell her I will not require an escort out of the pyramid, as I…”

Not minding the Knight, Missandei glanced towards the handmaidens and gave them a silent order. The next instant, a loud clanging noise erupted behind Jorah, interrupting his ranting. One of the young women had dropped the service tray she was holding, making a mess. Missandei quickly moved to her, bending down, her head turning towards Jorah.

“Help me?”

Not really thinking, Jorah abided. From afar, he and Missandei were now hidden from view. His armor hindering him, Jorah’s anger was about to explode again when Missandei leaned in to murmur in his ear while the handmaidens actually took care of the spill.

“The heart of our Queen moves in mysterious ways, surely you know this. She cares for you.” Jorah didn’t want to hear _that_ again and started to move away, but Missandei grabbed his arm and whispered with more assurance: “She _cares_ for you, _deeply_. And you may very well have proven your worth just now. _To her_, Ser Jorah. Do you understand?”

No, he didn’t. Because he did not want to. He was tired and aching. And most of all, wounded and…

“Her heart, her _true_ heart, belongs to you.” How earnest her beautiful, kind eyes searching his own. She so wanted to make him believe her, and somehow that did stir something in him. “Have faith, good Ser.” Jorah was shocked once more into silence, as much by Missandei’s revelations as her empathy, but there was no time to question either for she was getting up and he had to follow suit.

“I will retire with the handmaidens,” Missandei explained, her voice once more leveled. “The baths await you. I am glad you’ve reconsidered, Ser Jorah.”

***

Once they have left, Jorah closes his eyes and lets the air out of his lungs slowly. He could be wearing the weight of the world on his shoulders right now yet sensing himself on the verge of some relief, some respite hidden away in this secret haven. No one needs to know, least of all himself, that for one night, he might grant himself the fantasy of being without suffering. He looks around once more, taking in the perfection of this room, with its ornate fountains and small pools, ensconced like jewels in the vaulted architecture; the beauty of which spell Daenerys to him. A sad smile dances on his lips and, without thinking, he starts taking off his armor. And then his clothes, bloodied, filthy, covered in dust. His golden shirt falls on the chair on which Daenerys hung her sheer robe, emerald green like her healing waters. Jorah stares at the rumple fabrics, one luminescent, the other soiled. Even in their indistinct form, devoid of their human host, they speak of a beauty and her beast. Jorah stares at the garments, so close to each other, yet not touching. And isn’t that, in a nutshell, the story of his unrequited love for Daenerys? He moans softly, not knowing how to stop torturing himself with these thoughts as he undoes the leather strap that runs diagonally over his naked chest. In the heat of the battle, as his muscles contracted and strained, it cut through his flesh and he must close his eyes again, to counter the pain, when he unglues the leather from his skin. A raspy sigh escapes his lips and it echoes through the chamber, followed closely by another, a sweetly breathy whisper of a sigh which makes Jorah open his eyes again, looking about.

But no one else is there to witness his condition. His eyes do fall on a standing bronze mirror though, and he walks to it, unbuckling his kilt, and setting it down on a wooden bench. He looks at himself, his tall strong frame sinewy and bruised underneath the grime of battle. How scarred his warrior’s body! Jorah’s look is merciless upon himself in the mirror. The years have written stories on his skin which no woman has read since…he can barely remember when. He winces at the thought of the only one whose eyes upon him would matter. His right hand brushes his chest, his pectorals swelling with his breath, over his heart, beating so hard, why?.... He conjures up the image of Daenerys, her luminous smile, the ones she granted him before gifting them to Daario. _Of course_, she would choose Daario, the younger man.

With his palm, Jorah washes the grim off his skin with his own sweat, his hand trailing down his taut abdomen. For a brief second, looking at his hand come to rest on the swell of his hooded manhood, he recalls the auburn-haired beauty who volunteered to see to his _every_ need, and Missandei’s heartfelt plea in favor of Daenerys, but he brushes those thoughts away and, a bit dejectedly, discards his undergarment with one tug. Finally naked, he feels like sighing again but he hears someone breathe out _before_ he can exhale. The hair at the back of his neck stands and he feels a shiver run down his spine. He turns on himself swiftly, an eye towards his sword. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he wasn’t alone. Then, looking around the room, he knows. Of course, he isn’t alone. _She_ is here. She is everywhere. 

He should be entering the bath waters now, but he feels himself drawn to the objects surrounding him, those spelling out his impossible love. Moving about the room, eerily alive with the sound of water dripping and whimsical drafts of wind about –those sighs–, he lets his fingers peruse Daenerys’ vanity: picking up a ring and caressing it for a few seconds; dipping a finger in fine rice powder and blowing on it to see it fly away, smiling at the coquetry of his Lady; letting his hand run down the length of an intricate pearl necklace, imagining his fingers caressing each bead falling on his Khaleesi’s naked breasts before his lips would claim her budding nipples, the tip of his tongue worshiping them to feel them rise. It’s with this arousing image searing his mind that Jorah finds himself standing once more next to Daenerys’ translucent robe. He picks up the delicate lingerie, his fingers running under its emerald sheerness. How beautiful she would be, naked under the iridescent fabric. She’d be caressing her forms, calling his eyes to her, from the swell of her heaving breasts to the soft silver curls she’d show him, parting the folds of her robe to caress herself. For him, just for him.

_Stop it._ _Just stop_.

But Jorah doesn’t really want to stop. He feels his manhood stir and standing on guard, rising amidst the veils as he lifts the garment to his nose, but carefully, so as not to soil it, until he can bury his face in the fabric, breathing in its amber and honeyed perfume. _Breathing in Daenerys_ and rasping her name out loud. The lovelorn whisper reaches the confines of the bath chamber and a distinct female sigh answers him. Such a sweet hallucination! He kisses the fabric, willing time to stop but, of course, it doesn’t, and so Jorah parts with the treasure, turning towards the steamy bath.

***

In her secret alcove, Daenerys had tried and failed to hold her breath while spying on Jorah. First with Missandei and her handmaidens, then spying on him alone. The emotion was too great, seeing him remaining true to her. And seeing him disrobe, she simply had to sigh, because she couldn’t breathe. Seeing him suffer, seeing him desire her: being the voyeur made her open her heart and not simply her eyes. Jorah truly was her steadfast Knight. Her forever Knight. Missandei had been so right to chastise her after witnessing how she had greeted him after the battle. She had made Daenerys realize she needed to take a long hard look at herself. Her young aid and friend had dared this, shocking her Queen with her rather uncharacteristic audacity, but doing so with her usual flair for diplomacy, finding the right words, and trusting Daenerys would understand that she spoke out of love and respect for her. Which did not prevent Daenerys from throwing her a few fiery retorts, or trying Missandei’s patience with her plan of bestowing on Jorah the services of handmaidens. Thankfully, Missandei had seen through this poorly veiled attempt at trickery, and had known to keep her tongue. Some diplomatic battles were better fought through diversion.

Daenerys hadn’t had time to fully reflect on her actions, but she had demanded to be left alone, frustrating Daario in the process. But if truth be told, she didn’t know what came over her, humiliating Jorah upon his return, the same way she had shunned him after the Battle of Yunkai, simply to…hurt herself. Yes, hurting him but to hurt herself. Like an act of self-mutilation. Why else was she testing him repeatedly? Did she hope he would disappoint her? Did she want to see him love another? It would give her the perfect excuse then to remain miserable for the rest of her life, thirsting for a throne that would not fill her intimate needs. Oh, and loving the wrong men. Only the ones bad for her. She had been abused by her brother, raped and defiled by Drogo, and then had persuaded herself that she could love her captor if she chained him to her. And now, she was bedding an arrogant charmer. Did she not believe she was deserving of true love? Why could she not free herself of these invisible chains when she had freed thousands of slaves?

And so here, then, was this man in her private bath chamber, this devastatingly handsome Knight.

Of course, she had noticed!

It made her refusal to look upon him as anything other than a chaste protector all the more absurd. He loved her so. He was the only one who made her feel like she was already _home_, her rugged golden bear. He was walking about her favorite room now, gloriously naked and…incredibly well endowed. She blushed forming the words in her mind. Had she moaned out loud when he had discarded the last of his garments? She was mesmerized by him, his countenance and dignity, his natural grace. His stance, even naked, was the same as when he stood next to her.

Daenerys had to sigh once more, her heart beating too fast. She lost Jorah from view a moment, through the wisps of steam, and she panicked. But they dissipated, and the view became even more arousing: his warrior’s hands picking up her robe with reverence, like a High Septon would a sacred scroll, his manhood stirring longingly with just the ghost of her scent to arouse him. Daenerys lifted one shaky hand to her mouth then, feeling her breath waver. She sighed out loud, her eyes glued to Jorah’s manhood and then his reverent kiss upon her robe. She almost made herself seen then, her Knight’s name on her lips, but something kept her still.

Still, but shaking, as Jorah then stepped down the stony steps of her steamy bath, the warmth of the water under his muscled thighs making his beautiful cock twitch and thud on his lower abdomen while he exhaled. The sight made Daenerys’ secret folds swell and she pressed her fingers to her clitoris to stop it from throbbing, the gesture turning into an involuntary caress when her fingers found the slickness already coating her lips. She tried to stop but her other hand found her breast through her silky robe, her fingers brushing against her nipple, so hard already. And she knew herself to be lost.

***

Jorah lets himself slip fully into the hot scented water, the infusion of eucalyptus soothing his nerves and the ripples of the waves lashing gently at his sore body. He floats on his back, his eyes trailing the shimmery reflections of the water on the ceiling. The twinkling brings him back to the numerous times when Daenerys’ eyes mesmerized him with their own luminescence: whenever they visited exotic markets and she’d show him the treasures she found, or when her mare would not obey her as they crossed The Great Sea of Grass and he had to help her out of the bamboo twigs, smiling softly at her sudden giggle, or when they were gathering their spoils of war in Qarth. _That time, Gods…_For a second there, he had been so sure she was flirting with him, with her sultry eyes and her playfully wicked smile across the bronze chalice she was handing him, asking him if their spoils would buy them a ship. “A small one,” he had informed her, his own smile and glance saying something entirely different, something like an invitation to cavort and let their bodies exult the elation they were feeling. He had almost done it then, taken her by the hand to lead her to the room in which he knew beautiful bails of silk were being stored. He would have ravished her there; he would have let her do with him what she wanted.

Floating in the warm scented water, a smile forms on Jorah’s lips at his reminiscing until he also remembers those times when she touched his face, her lips gracing him with a kiss, her mouth skirting his before opting for his cheek. Those memories were bittersweet. He replayed them so many times, he could make himself believe he could alter them to fit his needs and desire. The same desire which gnaws at him presently.

Lazily swimming on his back in Daenerys’ emerald pool, it isn’t the water gliding on Jorah’s naked skin, it’s her. His Queen; his Khaleesi. Drops of water tinkle around him, teasing little echoes like her rare laughter, sweetly torturing him. To snap out of his reverie –though does he really want to shake the sensation away?– he immerses himself completely, swimming some ways underwater before emerging again at the shallow end of the small pool… like some ocean deity to Daenerys’ eyes. 

Jorah is smoothing his wet hair down the nape of his neck, his arms and back muscles flexing, his manhood jutting from the iridescent green water. _There is no escaping her_, he tells himself. She is still here with him.He can feel her. But truth be told, he relishes it. Or else his cock would not be standing so erect and proud. Yet he pays it no heed. 

_It’s as though this state is natural to him_, Daenerys can’t help but think, aroused and in awe. 

And maybe it is. Like some vital life current running through him, making him a force to be reckoned with and…a formidable lover. Ah! If only his Khaleesi knew! And if _he_ only accepted to _own_ his virility to seduce the woman he loves. He seems content though just basking in the eerie sensuality of Daenerys’ inner sanctum. He is about to dive again in her dragon-heated waters when his eyes catch a glimmer nearby. The handmaidens have left some of their colorful jars behind, a few of them lying next to the pool. He swims to reach them, the motion gifting Daenerys with a view of Jorah’s perfect buttocks and long, lean, powerful legs. Then, standing once more from the shallow waters, she sees him opening a round jar and lifting it to smell its creamy white texture.

Liking the scent, Jorah tentatively dips his fingers, then most of his hand, in the mixture, and slowly applies it to one of his arms, and then his muscled abdomen, amazed when the pomade transforms itself into a rich lather. The endearing expression on his face makes Daenerys smile, and again when she sees him trying to lather his back. She could help with that. _Gods, she should stop watching now_. But then he turns around, and she must bite her bottom lip: a slathering of thick lather has dropped on the crown of his cock and slid all the way down to his tight sac. She feels weak all of a sudden. What is she doing spying on her Knight like some lovesick vestal? _She should leave_. She knows as much, but she also knows that she won’t. Would he?

Jorah dips down into the water to wash the creamy suds from his body and, when he’s done, he steps with the jar to the hanging fountain feeding the pool with fresh water. It’s like stepping into a rain shower; like those turning Bear Island green during the long summers. How he had loved running naked through the meadow as a young man! He takes up his libation again, washing his hair, thinking of these gentler days…but, again, the sound of the water and its strange echoing around the room bring his memory back to Daenerys. 

Daenerys in her vaporous blue dress, the most beautiful woman in the colorful exotic gardens of Qarth, whose fountains spurted cooling waters. Such a welcomed oasis after the harshness of their time in the Red Waste. How he had welcomed seeing his Khaleesi’s long suppressed gaiety come bubbling back to the surface. She was a young woman again and not a widow, or a despondent conqueror in exile with a dwindling Khalasar…His hand presently lathering his torso, Jorah remembers how, in a moment of levity, Daenerys had splashed a bit of water his way because… 

“Jorah! You’re scowling!”

Of course, he was! He didn’t trust these rich merchants, these people, especially this Xaro Xhoan Daxos who had gifted his Khaleesi with such a revealing dress. Yet wasn’t she gifting him, and only him, with her beauty, in this singular moment? They were alone in a more remote section of the flowered cloister. Musky roses were encircling the fountain where they were resting for a second. He remembered their smell, much like that of the lather he was now applying up his thighs, and Daenerys had smiled at him, cupping her hands to scoop some of the fresh water to his mouth. 

“Will you drink, my Knight?”

_My Knight._

He had almost kissed her then, his whole body surging forward…like the motion of his hand now lathering his cock. Not washing it so much as worrying it, slowly but rhythmically, his chest heaving, to the memory of that almost kiss. Why hadn’t he dared? She wouldn’t have banished him for so little. She was made to be kissed, often and well…Often and well…Oft…_Gods, he should stop! _But the memory is so luminous and tempting, Daenerys’ lips so plump and the same shade of pink as the roses prickling his arms as he bends towards her…Towards the water luminescent in the palms of her hands, some of it trickling down her arms, her dress. Drops rolling down her cleavage, the sunlight making them twinkle…He tells himself that when he’ll finish drinking the elixir she is bestowing on him, lapping tenderly at the wet skin of her palms, he will claim her lips. He can see himself doing it now, pulling her to him, with one of his hands freeing her alabaster breast to hear her whisper his name…

“Jorah…” 

“Khaleesi…” The memory of her voice is so vivid, Jorah swears he can hear it anew. His eyes are closed; he is still in that garden with Daenerys, while his hand caresses in earnest the full length of his heavy cock.

“Don’t stop, my Knight.”

He won’t. He can’t anymore. Not with her voice spurring him on. Not with her hands suddenly joining his, massaging the creamy lather up his thick shaft while she presses her body on his back. What bewitching dream is this, Jorah dares not ask. He only wishes for it not to end. Breathing hard, he puts his strong hands over Daenerys’ smaller ones to guide her along his length and down again, cupping and caressing his taut sac, and making her run her delicate fingers along his underside, as he growls hungrily. Daenerys sighs deeply then. He can hear her, feel her, pressing herself closer to his back while her hands are moving on him like she’s always known her way around his flesh. His hands abandon hers then, his palms slamming against the stone wall for support and his throat hoarsely rasping Daenerys’ name. He is thrusting into her caress and rolling his hips, blissfully surrendering to the pleasure coiling up from deep in his loins, until he feels her lips on his naked back and he opens his eyes, suddenly realizing that this is no fantasy. 

Jorah turns swiftly then, interrupting Daenerys’ ministrations, and he pushes both of them out of the shower to gaze upon her upturned face, amorous and flushed. He’s holding her by the shoulders, and slightly at bay, but she doesn’t give him time to react.

“I couldn’t stay away…”

Looking up at Jorah, as if for the first time, Daenerys pulls him down for a hungry kiss. The kiss they should have shared in the gardens of Qarth, in the desert of the Red Waste, and moons before, in secret, on those nights Drogo had no use for her. Surely, Jorah would have let her into his tent, he would have risked his head for a taste of her, he would have loved her. And certainly here, again, in Meereen, in place of Daario. All this wasted time! But Jorah doesn’t let her torture herself with guilt, his embrace is as passionate as hers. He lifts her up to him, to better kiss her and push his straining manhood on her soft belly covered in wet silk. Yet he is also the first one to break their kiss: to catch his breath, and to look into Daenerys’ eyes, to make sure this is no dream. 

“Jorah, don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop. Come show me how much you want me…”

Releasing herself from her Knight’s embrace, the Khaleesi takes him by the hand and walks to the lounging chair by her vanity. Transfixed, words failing him, Jorah follows her and lets himself be pushed down on the ornate _récamier_. Yet, he moans softly when she leaves his side for a moment, though it gives him ample opportunity to see how alluring she is, dressed in a simple silky chemise, the same pink as the roses of Qarth, the blush color of her juicy lips, and as wet as them, he notices, when she turns once more to him. He swallows hard then, seeing her bosom and erect nipples shimmer through the soaked fabric. He can even guess the presence of the curls on her mound as she walks back towards him. Did he die during the battle? It would explain everything. _This is not really happening, is it? _He barely manages to whisper a breathy “Khaleesi” before being silenced by Daenerys, who holds one finger to her lips to hush him, while her other hand pours the contents of a small vial of precious oil over his half-reclining body. The muscles on his abdomen contract as he feels the deliciousness of the warm liquid anoint him and he sees his cock twitch towards Daenerys’ hand when she pours a sliver of oil all along its thick length. 

She could have him then. She knows as much. But what she wants first is to see her Knight’s flesh crave her; she wants to see the beauty of him before her own body actually tastes him. Parting her lips, her breath shaky, Daenerys takes Jorah’s hand in hers, their fingers massaging the oil unto his muscles until they reach his manhood once more. Their eyes lock then and, the next second, Daenerys has her Knight wrap his fingers around his girth. Her _petite_ hand over his, she incites him to caress himself anew.

Jorah dares to murmur a pleading “Khaleesi,” making Daenerys raise her eyes back to him, but she doesn’t let go. No, she puts pressure on Jorah’s hand and together they slide over his shaft. Jorah exhales sharply through his nose, to stop himself from moaning, not daring to say anything or resist for fear this will all go away. Daenerys’ breath comes quicker and deeper too, aligning itself on that of Jorah, and she swallows hard seeing what she has him doing, and which gives her such unspeakable pleasure. She bends to his mouth, to take his lips delicately, before whispering:

“Will you forgive me, Jorah? For not listening to my heart and yours? For having made you suffer so when I could have invited you to my bed from the first?” 

“Khaleesi…” Jorah can barely speak, from the emotion, and the unabashed transgression of their joining hands to pleasure his flesh. “There is nothing to forgive. I am yours to command. I…”

Jorah must close his eyes and exhale again, setting his jaw just so, to control the heat spreading through his loins, knotting his stomach, and making his cock throb in his hand as Daenerys keeps guiding it expertly, until she leaves him be. But not with her words.

“Don’t stop, Jorah. Show me what could have been mine all this time.”

And he abides, caressing himself for her. Until he feels her leave the proximity of his mouth. His eyes snap open then to gaze upon his Goddess as she stands next to him, her eyes trained on his pleasuring himself. She hears Jorah growl softly and so she turns her eyes once more to his, slowly lifting her damp chemise, up her thighs and higher still, until Jorah can see her silver curls slick with desire. She approaches him, swinging slowly her mound towards his upturned face. 

He smells it then, Daenerys’ secret scent, amber and honey. He’s always been able to recognize it, even while Drogo was alive. It enveloped her subtly and he would crave it, like the bear that he is. Bowing down to her, whenever they’d meet, he’d smell its delicate presence. Taking her off her silver mare, he’d relish it, her essence having soaked into the leather of the saddle, which he let no Dothraki handle. But now it is overpowering his senses, threatening to send him off the edge. As is the sheer beauty of her swollen lips and the little pearl she is showing him, covered with her opalescence. This banquet is within reach of his mouth and so he looks up, breathing hard, and trying to restrain himself. 

“Is this what you crave?,” he hears her say.

His lips and his tongue answer her as they latch onto her secret lips without further invitation. But just for a second. Because, the next, Daenerys retreats, gasping. Jorah fears he has done something wrong but, looking into her eyes, he sees her hunger and he’s tasted her arousal so, letting go of his cock, Jorah’s hand shoots up to grab Daenerys and pull her to him. But her own hand catches his just in time: “No.”

_The Gods have mercy_…But her Goddess is done with torturing his flesh and soul. She smiles as she swings one of her legs over the _récamier _to straddle it, her legs on each side of the reclining chaise.

“Let me, my Knight. Let your Queen give you what you need.”

Standing regally, her opened thighs are perfectly in line with Jorah’s adoring face and once more she lifts her chemise but, this time, to pull it over her head and let it fall beside them. She unties her wet hair too and shakes her tresses free. 

_By the Gods_, she is _glorious_ in her naked form, her hands cupping her breasts, the tip of her tongue wetting her lips. She is the very image of the deity Jorah has always believed her to be. Yet her breathing is even more shaky then his when she looks down to him. She is breathing hard, because she knows how good this will feel. 

“Touch yourself Jorah…while the bear pleasures me.”

On these words, Daenerys grabs the two ornate bubbles crowning the chaise, like she would the pummel of her saddle, and she offers herself to Jorah, whimpering as soon as his tongue sends lightning bolts through her core. She relishes his intimate kiss, his unabashed growling, his free hand scooping her bottom to press her flesh closer to his greedy mouth. And the sound which his other hand is making, the truly busy one, sliding up his oil-coated cock, in time and in tune with his licking her. She can’t help pleading for Jorah not to stop, aroused by their carnal music. Soon, her thighs start to tremble as shockwaves reverberate through her body, making her stand on tiptoe while she rocks her hips to Jorah’s mouth and throws her head back, every muscle in her small but fit body contracting, and her long silver mane falling over Jorah’s hand and cock, her soft hair lightly brushing his turgid flesh. 

_Gods_, Jorah has never known such pleasures or tasted a sweeter nectar. And yet he knew, he’s always known it would be this divine. He’s taking his time following her rhythms until his hunger overpowers him. He lets go of his manhood then, risking Daenerys’ amorous wrath, because he needs to dedicate himself entirely to her. He knows how to harvest more honey out of her core and make her pleasure crest. As a young man, he learned to not fear the bees and let his hand immerse itself in the secret of the hive to extract from it the honeycomb he craved. Such is his caress now, exploring Daenerys’ body, sliding a finger then two inside her, crooking them just so to make her give him more of that honey he’s been dreaming of for so very long.

Daenerys whimpers Jorah’s name repeatedly as she feels him tug on her with his fingers, his tongue giving her pearl a good lashing. She looks at herself thrust her mound to him, painting his lips and beard with her essence. He relishes it so, he could eat her whole, she can tell…Oh! How he makes her want to come! And the lusty thoughts he conjures up: he’s so good at pleasuring her, she sees him take her this way in front of Drogo. The Khal would have walked in on them and she would have made him see how a man, a real man, pleasures the woman he loves. She would have climaxed then, in front of him and on Jorah’s mouth, the same way her sex is now throbbing on his deep kisses, every time she hears him growl his hunger for her.

“Please! Jorah…Yes!” As soon as the pleasure wave breaks in her, the dragon awakens and she pulls away, but just far enough to go claim her lover. She means to dive on him with one swift plunge, but her breath catches as the width of Jorah’ girth takes her by surprise. She whimpers hoarsely then, exhaling shakily just as Jorah catches her in time.

“Gently…”

His arms have surrounded Daenerys for support, and he locks eyes with her, his face upturned to hers, trailing one of his hands down her smooth back while the other guides her hip, to slowly ease her unto his shaft. They are trying not to moan, breathing on each other’s mouth; Jorah having to clench the muscles of his jaw to contain the searing pleasure his cock is deriving from Daenerys’ tightness. He can’t let himself feel it, not until his Goddess can share it too. He hears his panting voice hush and sooth her:

“Like this…Let me…Khaleesi…”

All the while, his eyes never leave her face, beautifully flushed and enraptured. Her core could not be slicker with want…and yet, Daenerys must indeed lean in on Jorah, the feeling of him penetrating her too overwhelming. What delicious sounds escape his chest as he helps her take him in, seeing her rocking over him, her secret lips kissing the tip of his crown and sliding down its swell, only to move back up and down again slowly, thanks to his help. Her intimate spasms are welcoming him deeper and deeper with each pass and she whimpers in response, almost incoherently: “yes” and “please” and “more”… 

Daenerys’ state of arousal and her abandonment are transfiguring her already preternatural beauty, moving Jorah and awakening something primal in him: an animal need to protect and defend, but also to mate. Yet, he still keeps himself in check, zeroing in on Daenerys’ pleasure and needs, keeping his own from cresting, even though he’s waited so long for this. Not simply tonight but years of yearning, of feeling his desire for Daenerys awaken him at night, seizing his loins, and making his cock ache. The memory of it and the release of it, right now, as he feels the wetness and the tightness of her sooth his burning flesh eliciting a feral rumble out of him. He’s rasping Daenerys’ name and leaving a trail of wet kisses on her soft abdomen and her bosom, twirling his tongue on the hardness of her nipples, and sensing her heart beat wildly. He’s still holding Daenerys over his cock, his strong hands spread underneath her buttocks, to make sure her lowering unto him is gradual, and teasing. It’s taking forever because of his endowment but he knows it pleasures her, he hears it in her sighs and the music her wetness is making on his shaft until, at last, he feels her swollen honeyed lips kiss his groin and lick his sac. They both moan then, locking eyes, and then Daenerys bites her bottom lip, anticipating the pleasure she’s about to gift herself and Jorah: languorously, she swivels her hips to better feel how very deeply ensconced her Knight is in her. He is _hers _now. Daenerys licks her lips then and something wild in Jorah answers back, his cock thrusting up suddenly to shock her flesh and nestle even deeper. His grunt of pleasure is echoed in Daenerys’s moaning of his name, deliciously obscene in its wantonness. She feels impaled, rocking back and forth, Jorah’s member so hard inside her, it could be his long sword. She’s sure she can feel it go up her spine as she starts to move more freely now, her secret folds well honeyed, and craving the beast in her Knight. So, she calls to it, grinding herself, up and down, unsheathing and sheathing his shaft rhythmically, while he counter-thrusts to make her cry out. 

“I can feel you, Jorah. I can feel every inch of you. Please don’t stop, don’t…”

Oh! he won’t. He’ll never stop. He swore to obey her and he shall obey her now, if only to see her soar. His Khaleesi, his love. Lowering his arms, he lets her body fall back slightly, so he can better angle his movements, knowing this position will exacerbate her pleasure. Which it does right away, yet he understands by the surprise in her sighs that she has never felt it before, this pressure on the most intimate part of her. _Seven Hells,_ _her lovers were barbarians!_ She is pleading for him to “yes, take me like that” and so Jorah gives her what her body craves, while he finds himself transfixed by the sight of his cock spearing Daenerys’ beautifully swollen lips. She’s covering him with her opalescence, and it only makes him want to thrust harder. Which he does, while Daenerys rubs her pearl for him to see and for her to crest. His eyes come and go between the sight of her pleasure and that of her rapture, his hips accelerating the pace until he feels it like her, how his deep caress is now making her cream his length. 

“Daenerys, Gods!”

But his love is moaning too hard to hear him. In fact, Daenerys can barely ride him anymore from the pleasure building once more through her core, and so, she abandons herself to his strong hands, letting him seize her hips. It is he now, and only him, who guides her on the full length of his shaft. Gods, how he wants to spill himself, seeing himself take her like this. And, as if answering his silent prayer, Daenerys does indeed plead for him to come with her. In answer, Jorah shifts their bodies until he kneels on the _récamier_, lifting Daenerys unto him, making her wrap her legs around his waist in order to take her more fully. He’s squatting up and down, his contracted buttocks and rolling hips ramming lovingly into Daenerys. Her whimpers of acquiescence, on every thrust, are driving him mad with lust and pride. He kisses her hungrily and she answers back, their breath once more as one. She’s about to come, there is no turning back when, suddenly, for a brief moment, her body and soul feel weightless inside Jorah’s embrace whose eyes she dives into, a blissful smile illuminating her face before she exhales her epiphany:

“I love you.” 

Three little words that plunge deep into Jorah’s soul, and stop time, moving them both, before Daenerys throws her head back: 

“Now be the bear!”

Jorah’s feral grunt and the force with which he claims her send her off. She counter-thrusts, claiming him through her orgasm until Jorah stills her, his fingers digging deep in her hip and her shoulder, pushing her down unto his cock until he knows it couldn’t be nestled any deeper within her. His mouth is pressed unto the artery of her neck and he bites her there, not to break her skin but to mark his territory. Roaring. Climaxing. His manhood is contracting so furiously along her pulsating walls, the throbbing once more straining her secret lips, it makes her crest again. And cry out when she feels Jorah’s hot jets shoot up in her, their milkyness mixing with her own, but also spilling and trickling down from his seizing cock, out of her, to cream both their skin like a love potion. 

They stay like this, closely intertwined, feeling each other’s residual pleasure pulsate through their bodies. Their foreheads are touching, and they try to catch their breath through languorous kisses and sighs and whimpers, until they can hear the stillness of the waters surrounding them again.

“Will you disappear now?”, the bear whispers.

Smiling, Daenerys takes Jorah’s face in her hands, and she waits for him to open his eyes. He looks so vulnerable, all of a sudden.

“If I did, would you find me again?”

Jorah swallows hard, tightening his embrace.

“I would not rest until the day I could make you mine again.”

How ardent and amorous her beautiful Knight is in this instant. Daenerys smiles again, felicity illuminating her features. Wanting to make _him_ smile, she murmurs in jest:

“Well, I assure you, Ser Jorah, that you will not find my bed so very large that you shan’t be able to find me with the slightest movement of your body.”

“Oh! Am I to guard this realm of yours then, from now on?” The twinkle is back in Jorah’s eyes and he kisses Daenerys again before she takes their banter further.

“Indeed, sweet Ser. After all, you are my most precious advisor, my…”

“…general and good friend,” Jorah adds in unison with Daenerys. _That litany again!_

Daenerys laughs softly at Jorah’s mocking tone but adds, undeterred: “Yes! And as such you shall never leave my side again. I shall have a decree written, making it law, and will ask our Maester to draw you a map of our bed, I mean, our Realm. I wouldn’t want you wandering aimlessly about between the sheets. Because, now that I think of it, a queen’s bed is indeed _so_ very large…”

“Not a Queen, a Khaleesi.” 

Ugh, that soft rumbling of her title. Suddenly, Daenerys is sure Jorah has always known how it affected her.

“Say it again.”

“Khaleesi,” the rumbling even more velvety. And he smiles seeing Daenerys blush, shifting her in his arms until he can bridal carry her down into the emerald pool. The warm water is indeed delicious. It makes Daenerys purr and then giggle softly when she feels her Knight’s renewed arousal flirt with her underwater.

“I see bears can swim.”

“Oh! Indeed, they can, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys can’t help whisper then: “Will you growl my title when next we make love?”

Jorah’s expression turns serious once more. He cups Daenerys’ face with one hand and cradles her body in the water with the other, claiming her lips, his whisper heartfelt between every kiss: “Until I see you shatter in your emerald pools. And in your bed. Until you cry my name in the light of dawn. And until the end of time.”


End file.
